CHAPTER 9
The Elders
Back in 1968, I’d created my first business, Student magazine, to protest against the Vietnam War. Along with the rest of the magazine staff I took part in the October march to the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square. We chanted about the US President Lyndon B. Johnson—“Hey! Hey! LBJ! How many kids did you kill today?”—as I marched alongside Vanessa Redgrave and Tariq Ali. The experience had been an exhilarating one—at least until the police got heavy-handed and I had to dash across the square, narrowly avoiding the baton charge.
Thirty-five years later, I was on another historic march, campaigning against another unjust war. This time, the conflict was the coming one in Iraq and the US President driving it, George W. Bush, supported by the British Prime Minister, Tony Blair. On 15 February 2003, I was one of the thirty million people in 800 cities around the world protesting against the Iraq War. The march in London I joined wove its way from two starting points on Gower Street and the Embankment toward Hyde Park: the BBC estimated that over a million people took part. It was a march made up from all walks of life: from veteran marchers like me to those who’d never been on a march before; friends and whole families, rather than the usual suspects. Compared to the Vietnam marches it was far better organized and completely peaceful.
Such was the volume of protestors taking part that the march itself was incredibly slow—stopping and starting as we made our way through the London streets. As I walked, I thought of the words of Nelson Mandela: “Our human compassion binds us the one to the other—not in pity or patronizingly, but as human beings who have learned how to turn our common suffering into hope for the future.”
The strength of feeling against a new, disastrous war that day was incredibly powerful. Despite an absence of support from the international community and the public, the warmongering machine was moving forward with unstoppable force. Like many people around the world, I desperately wanted to do something to prevent another pointless war. I remembered the first Gulf War in 1990, when I was spurred into action by the same feelings of hopelessness and anger. Then we ran relief flights to Jordan, and flew to Iraq with medical supplies. Saddam Hussein handed over women, children and sick hostages to us in one of the most nerve-racking but rewarding journeys of my life. The question was, what could I do to make a difference now?
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This had been an issue I had been thinking about more generally long before the pull to war had begun. A couple of years before, Bill Gates and his wonderful wife, Melinda, had flown out to spend the Easter holidays on Necker Island. I have long been inspired by Bill for his computing genius but in particular his compassion. I was in awe of how he had transformed his life from focusing upon Microsoft, a business that had changed the world, to looking at how to give back to others.
Bill has an acutely sharp brain and a unique way of looking at the world. He hones in on specifics and is an expert on subjects ranging from gaming to global health. Melinda is an incredibly smart woman, too. She told us all about her research into malaria, AIDS and tuberculosis and it was fascinating watching Bill listen and learn from his wife. He asked lots of questions and it was interesting to have another avid note-taker around. He can be chatty, but would certainly agree with Doug Larson’s quote, “Wisdom is the reward you get for a lifetime of listening when you’d have preferred to talk.”
Bill and I are very different characters, but have a lot more in common than our notebooks and checkbooks. We got talking about water sports and I was pleasantly surprised to learn that he used to race sailing boats.
“I thought you would be too busy on computers to get out on the water,” I joked.
I wasn’t laughing for long. Heading out into the ocean, we raced around the British Virgin Islands, where Bill proved his sea legs and gave me a run for my money! We were equally well matched on the tennis court, as well, where our match was tied at two sets each.
“Let’s call it an honorable draw,” I suggested, overcoming my competitive instinct in the name of friendship.
Something else we had in common was our shared respect for Nelson Mandela. Over dinner, a fish supper whipped up and eaten at a table on the tennis court, we got talking about how Bill and Melinda’s Foundation was trying to make a lasting impact. Bill told me that meeting Mandela had changed his life. He contrasted Mandela with Tabo Mbeki, who had followed him as South African President. He said that Mbeki not only refused to believe that antiretroviral drugs would help HIV/AIDS patients, but had also turned down a $50 million grant from Bill.
“Mandela taught me about living,” said Bill. He went on to explain how meeting the most respected person in the world had set him on a new path, combining the spheres of capitalism and charity. Once again, it got me thinking about how to bridge these two worlds.
“How do you manage it?” I asked Bill. “You’re a hands-on sort of guy. So how do you juggle the foundation with Microsoft?”
“I don’t. I now spend far more time on our charitable work; it’s not that I enjoy Microsoft any less—it’s just the right thing to do.”
This struck a chord with me. By the end of Bill and Melinda’s stay, I felt similarly inspired. I wanted to follow suit, and find a way to shift my own focus further toward doing my part in helping others.
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One possible way of doing that had come up a couple of years before that, in conversation with another great mind: the rock singer Peter Gabriel. Peter is a great friend and I always enjoy chatting to him: we’re good at getting each other thinking creatively, and throw around lots of different ideas. In 1999, Peter had a vision of bringing together some of the world’s most respected people to communicate collectively through the internet and use technology as a tool for good. I had another idea about uniting a group of Elders to tackle conflicts in the world. Over the course of a few conversations we molded the two ideas together.
I invited Nelson Mandela over for dinner with the two of us and our families, and we brought up our plan. Mandela thought it was very exciting, but he wasn’t convinced we had developed the concept enough.
“How will it work practically?” he asked. “I’m sure there will be the will, but will there be a way?”
Then, in 2003, war in Iraq looked increasingly likely. I had closely followed the reports coming out from the UN weapons inspectors and it appeared that the evidence for an invasion did not add up. My instinct was that war would be a dreadful mistake and there must be an alternative solution. Most people wanted Saddam Hussein to step down, but there had to be a better way of achieving this than killing potentially hundreds of thousands of people and unsettling the whole of the Middle East. Idi Amin had been persuaded to step down from Uganda in 1979 to live in exile in Saudi Arabia for the rest of his life, bringing peace and stability to Uganda. Perhaps the same could be done with Saddam.
I was trying to think who in the world could persuade Saddam to step down, when I came back to the Elders’ idea that Peter and I had discussed. One person came to mind: Mandela had spoken out against the prospect of war. I called him up again to see if he could help and sent him the following note:
Dear Madiba,
America and Britain have definitely decided to go to war. Inevitably there will be many civilian casualties. I believe there may be only one way to stop a war in Iraq and I believe you may be the only person in the world to achieve it. If Saddam Hussein could be persuaded to retire to Libya (or somewhere else), with full immunity, I do not believe it would be possible for America to press ahead with war. If he were to make this sacrifice to avoid his people going through yet more suffering, it would enhance his reputation considerably. The personal alternative will be the fate of Noriega, Milošević or worse. Knowing your close relationship with President Qaddafi and the respect with which you are held in Iraq you are perhaps the only person who could organize this. I believe that you would have the credibility to persuade Sa
ddam Hussein to step down. By flying out with you—to, say Libya—he could leave with his head held high. It would be the best thing he could ever do for his people. If it helps you I would be happy to send you a plane to take you there and back (hopefully via Libya!)
Kind regards as always,
Richard.
Mandela responded positively, agreeing to fly to Iraq on the condition that Kofi Annan, the Secretary-General of the United Nations, joined him. I contacted Kofi, who also agreed readily. Now we went into overdrive organizing the trip details. We had to keep the plans top secret, because there were concerns President Bush would start the war even earlier if the US found out. I had real hope that Madiba and Kofi could make Saddam see sense. We had two pilots on standby and a Learjet ready on a runway in Johannesburg to take them to Iraq. But a couple of days before they were due to fly, Allied bombs started falling on Baghdad. Our efforts were too late: a terrible war that has affected millions of people—and still does—began.
Like millions of others, I felt helpless, heartbroken and terribly frustrated. There had to be a case for compromise and communication rather than guns and bombs, but we didn’t get to make it. A paranoid part of me still wonders whether secret services intercepted our plans and alerted President Bush to Mandela and Kofi’s visit, given that the bombing started slightly earlier than anticipated. Would anything have come of their visit? It’s impossible to say for sure, but, certainly, there was a chance. I turned my attention to doing what I could to help in other ways, including flying a relief mission to Basra to deliver more than sixty tons of medical supplies. Mike Abunalla, an Iraqi exile, proudly piloted the flight. It was overwhelmingly sad seeing up close the suffering Iraq’s people were going through.
As the fighting raged, I spent a lot of time thinking about what else I could do as a businessperson to help reduce suffering in the world. Ever since my meeting with Bill and Melinda Gates in 2001, I had been pondering how to build my own foundation in a uniquely Virgin way. We already gave lots to charities, but it was a scattergun approach. I felt we could do more by focusing on some key subjects.
As with any other business, I started to search around for people to make it happen. It just so happened that Jean Oelwang at Virgin Mobile Australia had a long history in the charitable sector and was keen to get back into nonprofit work. I called her up and we discussed how I saw a new type of organization working—not as a charity simply offering out donations, but a real force for good uniting people to change their own communities and the wider world. Her vision chimed with my own.
“I love it. Let’s do it. How soon can you move to London?” I asked.
Later, Jean told me she danced around the room packing her bags as soon as I hung up the phone. We spent the first six months listening to our staff, experts in the nonprofit sector, governments and customers to build the purpose of this new venture. Our staff came up with the logo, the structure and even the name: Virgin Unite.
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If I had to give one reason why I have been fortunate enough to experience some success, it would be my knack of bringing together wonderful people. I had seen this up close while in South Africa when I engineered a meeting between Mandela and the Dalai Lama, who had never met and whose people worried about it being deemed too political. Staying a few blocks away from each other, it was the only opportunity for these two great spirits to meet. We managed to organize it and it was magical. This meeting reinforced my belief in the idea Peter and I had about forming a group of independent global elders.
Although it hadn’t worked with Iraq, I kept returning to the concept of a global village of Elders, who would be able to speak out on the most challenging issues facing the world and command the respect of those in power. I talked this through with Jean, trying to work out how it could work practically. The only solution we could think of was for Mandela himself to personally unite these Elders—only he had the love and respect to bring together such a group of formidable people.
I was very conscious that Mandela had gone into retirement after so many years of unrelenting service for his country, his people and the world: he had announced an unofficial “don’t call me, I’ll call you” policy. Therefore, I felt nervous as Peter and I refined our ideas into a letter to send to him, breaking the rule. But we believed there was no alternative: without Mandela and Graça’s blessing, the Elders would not have the essential validity to move forward.
So we wrote, “An idea—yes, I’m sorry—another idea . . .”
As well you know, in an African village there are elders who the rest of the village look up to. We believe that the Global Village needs to equally tap into our elders. You told us then that it had been easier for you to gain the trust of the generals negotiating in Rwanda, as they said talking to you was like talking to a father.
We would like to set up a small body of the most respected “Elders” in the world and as you are accepted as the most respected figure of all today, we would ask that you become the father figure to this organization and the first Elder.
We would suggest that the Elders are initially chosen by yourself, and then in the future chosen by the world community, giving them added legitimacy on the world stage. None of them would be current politicians.
The Council of Elders would comprise 12 men and women. Four of these could stand down every three years. The new four could be voted in from a shortlist selected by the Elders through channels like the internet, television, post and e-mail. They would represent a broad spectrum of the world’s people.
I appreciate that you would have difficulty finding much time yourself but it would give enormous credibility to the future of the Elders if you were to give it your blessing and be its founding father. I would pledge myself to find the time and resources to help organize it behind the scenes and to make sure it became a force for good in the world and hopefully continues for many years to come.
Kind regards, Richard.
The next day I was again taking a bath when I got another call from Madiba. “Graça and I would love to accept. We love the idea. Come to Africa and let’s work out who the twelve most respected people in the world are to form the Elders.” Peter and I were overjoyed. From that day on, I decided never to get out of my bath!
CHAPTER 10
“They’re building a spaceship!”
If a Virgin Atlantic pilot hadn’t wandered into the wrong hangar by mistake, Virgin Galactic might never have happened. That pilot was Alex Tai and the hangar in question was in the Mojave Desert in California. If that doesn’t sound science fiction enough, what he discovered in the hangar was even more so: an almost completed spaceship.
The hangar and spaceship belonged to the aircraft designer Burt Rutan and his company, Scaled Composites. I had first come across Burt during my hot-air ballooning adventures in the 1980s. Before crossing the Atlantic in a balloon in 1987, I went out to Burt’s California base to ask for his advice on issues such as pressurized capsules and aerodynamics. I began to learn more about his designs, including bizarre planes that looked more like doodles in a student’s notebook. They had odd names like the Long-EZm, the VariEze and the Quickie—branding wasn’t Burt’s strong point.
Fifteen years later, I got in touch with Burt again, this time over the Virgin Atlantic GlobalFlyer project. The aim of the project was to build and fly a single-seat, all-carbon-composite airplane around the world, nonstop, without refueling. For years I had been trying to convince Boeing and Airbus to build their most widely used planes out of carbon fiber: as well as massively reducing CO2 emissions, it made economic sense, as these planes would use far less fuel. After several years passed marked by inaction from the big airplane manufacturers, we decided to prove to them it could be done. Steve Fossett, who had been by my side on our around-the-world balloon flight attempt in 1998, would fly the plane. Burt would design it.
In mid-2003, Alex Tai happened to be in Mojave aft
er a flight from London to Los Angeles. We had been tipped off by Steve Fossett that, as well as building the Virgin Atlantic GlobalFlyer, Burt had a secret project on the go in another hangar. When Alex wandered into the wrong hangar, Building 75, we discovered what it was. Once Will heard about it, he was on the phone to me in a flash, his voice flush with excitement.
“Richard, fuck the GlobalFlyer. They’re building a fucking spaceship!”
It sounded too good to be true. For twelve years we had been all round the world looking for a genius designer to get our space dreams off the ground, and now we’d bumped into one by mistake, while we were working on another project two doors away. It didn’t take much persuasion for me to head out to the desert and see it for myself. On the way over, I reread Tom Wolfe’s classic book The Right Stuff, the story of early space travel, and I could feel my excitement building.
The Mojave Desert has a long history of being home to experimental flying: it was where Chuck Yeagar had broken the sound barrier in an X-1 and where Bob White flew the X-15. It is also a spectacular place: hot and dry with the rich blues of the never-ending skies contrasted with the yellows and starched greens of the landscape, dotted throughout with cacti and the striking silhouettes of the native Joshua trees. Burt’s house is no less spectacular: a pyramid in the desert that rises out of the horizon like something out of a film set. Inside, his home is decorated with murals of ancient Egyptian civilization—interspersed between the images and the pharaohs and gods was the odd alien face. I was clearly in the right place.
Finding My Virginity: The New Autobiography Page 8